


Blind-Man's Bluff

by SourCherryBlossom



Category: Homeland
Genre: Drama, F/M, Light Bondage, Long-Term Relationship(s), Romance, Spanking, True Love, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-07 05:19:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3162716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SourCherryBlossom/pseuds/SourCherryBlossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after the events of 4.10, based on a loosely defined tumblr prompt, this fic was intended to describe what would have happened if Carrie Mathison had gone to stay with Aasar Khan after the Embassy closure, as she had nowhere else to go.  Twisted ankles were mentioned, then gauze bandages were mentioned, then off went my mind into 50 Shades of Khan.</p><p>But you know me by now, I can't just write smut.  I hope you enjoy the love, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [indigovioletstargazer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigovioletstargazer/gifts).



Night in Islamabad.  Carrie Mathison and Colonel Aasar Khan stood under the overhang of a multilevel parking garage, engaged in one of the peripatetic discussions that characterized their relationship.  Above them, against the concrete side of a building, hung an enormous banner with an image of Hassaim Haqqani, illuminated by amber streetlight. 

Since the night that Carrie had spent at Khan’s house, hallucinating, professional reserve had broken down between the two.  Later, Khan had voluntarily given up Dennis Boyd as the Embassy mole and Carrie’s poisoner, and thus, a degree of trust had been built between them. The night after the horror of the Embassy incursion, Carrie had called Khan and asked to meet again.

She wanted to discuss the apprehension and deportation of Peter Quinn. He was now out of CIA control and was at an unknown location in the city, undoubtedly planning some clandestine mission, the details of which were known only to Peter. Carrie had contacted Khan again, to find out if his furtive attempts to help her in the past could be expanded into something more substantial in the search for Peter.  She was sick at the thought of losing another team member, and hoped Colonel Khan would render assistance. She had been awake for days in a state of high anxiety, and felt that she could use all the help she could get.

They ambled side by side, until they were out of range of any of the bodyguards’ hearing, walking closely, with hands nearly touching. The outside of Aasar’s hand brushed against Carrie’s several times as they moved towards a private place to speak, and she shivered.  She had to resist the urge to lean into him.  His height, his strength and his restrained manner encouraged her confidence, which had been utterly shattered by the previous day’s events, and the loss of Fara, Redmond, Hensley, and Quinn. Carrie knew it would be unseemly to appear weak, and no doubt work against her purpose, but she ached for comfort, and she remembered what Khan had done for her before.

Khan’s abstemious manner belied a tender side, which she had seen when she had been so ill, on the hallucinogenic drugs.  Recalling the words she thought Brody said, and finally realizing that they had all come from Khan, she had been moved.  If she could trust her memory, it had been an astounding disclosure of his concealed feelings.   But as she returned to normal, he had also become reticent again to speak of it, or anything personal.  Nevertheless, the revealed urges simmered beneath the surface, and it seemed that since then, Khan used any excuse possible to touch her shoulder, hand, or the small of her back.

The things he had said – so kind, so personal.  And so passionate.  Perhaps it had been out of pity, or a momentary hormonal fugue, regarding a woman who Khan had found attractive.  But she found it hard to believe this, as Khan had tried so hard to provide comfort, despite his awareness that she belonged in a hospital or mental ward.  He had kept her that night, had held her in his arms, and soothed her hysteria.  Kissed her forehead and caressed her back, and her body.  She had forgotten most of the things she’d said that night, but she had not forgotten the way she felt, the way his arms sheltered her.  The way he’d kept her from further embarrassment and harm, and the familiar way he’d put her to bed in his own home that night.  It was both sensual and frightening, to remember his power over her.  His touch had found its way into her dreams, which were suggestive, veiled with unknown meaning, and from which she awoke with a throbbing between her legs, unable to remember the particulars – but desperately wanting to.  Even in daylight, Carrie felt drawn back to him, to his dark-eyed regard, his long fingers, his coffee-hued skin, and his sensual lips.  It was distracting, maddening.

She tried to put this out of her mind as they came to a stop in an isolated, quiet place at the top of a flight of stairs.  She realized that they had simply circled a large city block, and had arrived once again near the spot where Aasar had parked his SUV.

The Colonel turned to his trailing guards, and with a single motion, waved them off.  The senior one regarded Khan for an extra moment, and then nodded.  The two men proceeded back towards their own vehicle, leaving Carrie and Khan to talk alone.

The discussion began with discord, because the topic was Peter Quinn.

“I’m missing someone,” Carrie said, “and I won’t leave him behind.”

Khan sighed disgustedly. “Peter Quinn,” he said.

“Our Chief of Support,” Carrie insisted.

“Your _Chief of Support_?” Khan said, incredulously, turning away.  He started down the adjacent flight of stairs, seeming to abandon the dialogue and walk towards his vehicle. “I thought we were going to have an honest conversation,” he said, over his shoulder.

“Aasar, wait!” Carrie called after his retreating form.  Alarmed at his departure, Carrie started quickly down the stairs behind him.  Exhaustion made her panicky, clumsy.  In her attempt to catch up, she hurried, tripped on the bottom step, and turned an ankle, going down in an undignified heap on the concrete at the bottom of the staircase.  She landed hard, and gave a cry of distress.  Khan turned back to her swiftly, his expression altering from irritation to concern.  He went to her side, and crouched next to her crumpled form. 

Carrie breathed in and out rapidly through her teeth, trying not to whimper aloud.  Khan put his hands on her shoulders, tried to steady her.  As she got control of herself, she tried to rise with his help, stumbling and swearing.

“Shit, oh, shit, Goddamnit,” she said, a tear streaking down her cheek.  Knowing it was foolish, she still attempted to hop on one leg to a nearby bench.

“Stop,” Khan demanded, placing his hands on her shoulders, stilling and supporting her.  “Stop moving.  We need to see if you’ve injured yourself. ” He scooped her into his arms, carried her to the bench, and set her down gently.  “Wait here,” he ordered.  He was strong and lithe, and his relatively slender build contained hidden potency.  As her feet left the ground, she felt that she weighed nothing to him.  She simply gave a surprised “Oh!” upon being lifted, as he carried her to the bench, where she sat mutely, frowning and cursing under her breath, waiting for his assistance. What a disaster, she thought.  But at least she wasn’t alone out here.  And after everything she’d been through in the previous 48 hours, his arms had felt good to her, a haven of strength.

Khan walked to the SUV, and opened the passenger door wide.  He came back to Carrie, lifting her and carrying her again, towards his car.  She put her arm around his neck and accepted his help wordlessly, gasping slightly at the sharp pain, her ashen face wearing a frown of discomfort.  Khan stepped up and reached in the vehicle to settle her into the seat, with her legs protruding out the passenger side door.  She was worried that she had suffered a pretty bad sprain, and was grateful enough to have his help that she simply allowed his care.  His dark eyes were worried and soft, and he seemed eager to help, all previous political machinations now set aside.  Khan had taken over the situation, and she doubted that protesting his help would change his behavior in any case.

He lifted her twisted ankle, handling her booted foot, gently unzipped the leather, and slowly removed it.   She winced and sucked in her breath as her ankle contorted while he removed her boot.  Quietly, his eyes on hers, he asked permission.  “I think you’ve a bad sprain, possibly fractured it,” he said.  “Can I examine you?”  Carrie was overcome with fatigue, and the level of pain that had been inflicted in the accident had unsettled her.  She nodded, wordlessly, as Khan removed her sock and stroked her ankle and foot, flexing and bending it. His touch was deft; his fingers soft and soothing as he palpated the injured limb. The intimacy of the gesture found its way through her pain, her careworn mood, and she leaned on the seat, looking sadly at him.

“A sprain, I think, but not a break,” he said, sympathetically.  “I don’t think you need to go to the Emergency room.  I can take you back to your hotel,” he said.  He stood, and assisted her in facing forward, tucking her legs into the SUV, his shapely fingers pressing her thighs to the front.  Reaching across her body, he locked her seat belt buckle into place.  As he leaned near, she got an affecting whiff of his scent – cologne or aftershave, and something deeper that was simply Khan - his skin, warmth, his clean animal smell.  In spite of the ache in her ankle, she felt aroused by it, and shook her head, attempting to snap out of it.  He was probably only being kind.

He got into the driver’s seat and started the car.  “Where are you staying?” he asked.

Carrie sighed.  “At the moment, nowhere. The Embassy is closed, my things have been sent on, all I have is my messenger bag here, and my passport.  I don’t think there are even any hotel rooms available,” she complained, “because there are so many expats trying to leave the country all of a sudden.”

She gave a hiccup that was almost a sob, and leaning over, put her chin in the palm of her hand, forehead pressed to the window.  “You can take me to the airport,” she said bleakly, “I can crash on the floor.”

She felt Khan’s warm hand press into her knee.  “Nonsense,” he said.  “You must stay with me.  I’ll look after you.”

She looked at him, and managed to catch his eye, before he looked forward again, attending to the drive.  The expression on his face had been much less guarded, quite touching in its concern.  Under the concern, though, she was able to sense something else.  Something smoldering.  She put her head down on the car door, and rested.  Khan’s hand did not move from her knee, all the way to his home.  She put her hand on top of his, gratefully accepting the comfort.  The pain in her ankle was fading to a dull ache, for which she was thankful.  But she knew that only meant that it was swelling.  She closed her eyes, leaned her head back into the car seat, and drifted off as he drove them to his home.

 


	2. Chapter 2

It seemed like only a moment later when Carrie felt the SUV come to a stop, and heard the engine cut off. She felt Aasar's hand lift from off her knee, and raised her head to look around groggily. She sat up, to see Khan walk up the steps to his home, and unlock the double front doors. Throwing them wide, he came back to the passenger door where Carrie was sitting, one foot bare, her ankle aching dully, her eyes a blear of fatigue and discomfort. Aasar opened her door, and reached in to pick her up again.

"I should try to walk," she said, "I don't want to burden you." She felt she must protest  _pro forma_ , but really, she was very glad he was carrying her, being so exhausted and sore that she felt almost crippled.

"You're no burden at all," he said, lifting her easily, and carrying her up the steps. Carrie's arm went around his neck and held on, and she even dared rest her head on his shoulder as he carried her. She could feel the warmth of his body through his uniform, and she closed her eyes again. She felt him turn his head, and look at her face. After everything, all the strange interactions, the bloody politics, quid pro quo, the ISI maneuvering, the wretched spycraft, he could see her closed lids, and he knew the truth. She trusted him. It wrenched at his heart.

After passing through into the foyer, Aasar leaned back into both doors to close them. Then he took her straight up a wide, curving staircase, and carried her into the master bedroom. He laid her on his bed, where she rested appreciatively. Khan took off his uniform jacket, throwing it on an armchair, and then walked into the adjoining master bath, rolling up his sleeves as he went. He returned shortly with a first-aid kit, and setting it on the floor next to the bed, he squatted on one knee and opened it.

"I'm sure I have an elastic bandage, and some other helpful items. And in a moment, I'll get you an ice pack, to slow the swelling," he said, looking through the kit. He located several rolls of gauze bandages, as well as a roll of wide elastic bandage held shut with butterfly clips.  He set them on the bedside table. She rolled on her side, her bare foot with its swelling ankle on top. For a moment, she simply watched him, head resting on her arm. Then, she spoke.

"Aasar. Why are you being so good to me?" she asked, wistfully.

He looked up at her, then quickly down again, like her gaze burned him. Satisfied that he had found the needed medical supplies, he stood and moved closer to the foot of the bed. He unzipped Carrie's other boot, and removed it slowly, as well as her sock, leaving her barefoot. His warm hands stroked both her insteps, making her shiver. Finally, he looked back up at her.

"You deserve kindness," he said, an air of melancholy in his voice. "I'll go see about an icepack now," he said. He turned and went downstairs to the kitchen.

Carrie sat up, took off her suit jacket, and tossed it onto the floor. She lay back down and looked around Khan's bedroom, taking in the flowing curtains, the neat dresser, the large 18th century reproduction between the windows, and the stack of books on the bedside table.  His choices of reading material were intriguing.  “No Place to Hide,” the Greenwald bestseller about Edward Snowden, well, that was predictable.  Undoubtedly Khan read a great deal of political non-fiction.  But there was also, “Look Homeward, Angel,” and she wouldn’t have pegged him for a Thomas Wolfe enthusiast.  And on top of the stack, with a bookmark halfway through,”Enduring Love,” by Ian McEwan.  Some pleasure reading _that_ was, she thought.  The only photograph in the room was a framed black-and-white image of a woman, older and dignified, who judging by the resemblance, had to be Kahn’s mother.  Carrie sighed, and closed her eyes.

From downstairs, a gloriously soft and elegiac melody came, and a moment later Khan returned to the room, a soft blue icepack in his hands. He went to the bathroom, wrapped a thin washcloth around it, and very gently, applied it to Carrie's ankle. She bit her lip as he shaped the soft coldness to conform to her swelling ankle. Aasar opened an elastic bandage, and used it to wrap Carrie's foot loosely, holding the coldpack in place.

"What is that?" she asked, as he delicately attached the butterfly clips to the wrapped bandage.

"The music? Fauré requiem," he said.

She managed a tired smile. "Is someone going to die?" she asked.

His eyes flicked up at hers, evaluating her state of mind, her seriousness.  He was glad to see that she was smiling wanly.  "I should hope not. I just think it's a lovely piece," he said. He finished his first aid, and without asking if he could join her on the bed, he did so, lying next to Carrie, close enough for her to feel his warmth.

She turned on her side, away from him, and towards the painting.

"And the painting, I don't know it. What's it called?" she asked. Aasar's hand came to rest on her waist, as he turned to face the same direction. He held it there, and the intimacy between them grew more palpable. For the most part, she felt warmth and comfort from him, but she also intuitively that knew he was repressing more sensual desires, because of her current state of fatigue and injury.

"It's called Blind-man's Bluff," Khan said. "Fragonard. It's an allegory for courtship, some think," Leaning up, he rested his head on his hand, over a bent elbow, so he could see over Carrie's shoulder. His head was above her ear now, and his breath was hot in her hair. "But I think it's something a bit more to do with earthly pleasures. See how she's blindfolded?" he asked, his hand squeezing her waist more tightly. "And see what they're doing?"

Carrie squinted at the painting, enjoying Khan's closeness, his wanton flirting. If she hadn't been so tired, she'd have rolled over and kissed him. Instead, she studied the painting.

"Is that a see-saw?" she asked, almost finding the energy to giggle.

Aasar ran his hand up Carrie's back, then back down, stroking along her spine, seductively. "Yes, a see-saw. Most observers see it as a symbol for the sexual act itself. And she's blindfolded. Quite wanton, really," he said. His hand stopped on the skin of her neck, and she turned on her back. He looked down at her, at the ready to begin lovemaking, if only the slightest acquiescence was indicated. Instead, Carrie nearly burst into tears.

"Aasar, I'm in your bed again," she said, miserably. "I'm glad to be here, I want to be here. I want to be with you. But I've been awake for two days, and I'm so fucking tired," she said. He pulled her close; put her head on his shoulder, as she sniffled. The music flowed peacefully up to them, soft, like a lullaby. She pulled herself close to him; put her arm over his chest. Pressed this near, she could feel his manhood at the ready. It was reassuring too, even though she wasn't quite ready for that.

He sighed. "Carrie. Sleep for a while. I'll be here when you wake up." He kissed her forehead.  Before she could even say “Thank you,” she had  fallen asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Night passed, and the music ended. Khan was afraid to move, at first, because Carrie’s exhaustion was so profound, and he wanted to afford her the best possible rest, under the circumstances.  Her head was heavy, though, and his shoulder started to tingle and fall asleep.  Eventually he wiggled out from under her, and rearranged her on the pillows.  She didn’t wake, or even stir.  He got up and extinguished all the lights in the room except for the focused illumination over the painting, and then he lay back down next to her again, close enough to smell her. 

                Aasar looked closely at Carrie’s face, at her feathery eyelashes, enjoying the chance to study her, drink her in.  Gray lines, crescents of fatigue, spread out in a corona below her closed eyelids.  Khan felt a stab of pity for her overwrought state, observed her even breathing and pink lips, which were slightly parted in her stillness. He wondered when was the last time she’d eaten, or drunk anything other than water or coffee. 

Carrie’s golden hair was spread out over his pillow.  Unable – unwilling, really - to stop himself, he reached out and touched it, combed through it gently with trembling fingertips. It was as silky as he’d imagined.  She looked soft and tremendously vulnerable, and a deep upwelling of emotion began to break open in his chest, his mind, his heart aglow with some unnamable feeling, like he had been living in an eclipse, and suddenly, the sun had come out. He was staggered by the strength of it, sentimental at its core, but sensual, and physical, in its ultimate expression.  It was as if the many years of reading prose, poetry, Keats, Shelley and Wordsworth, had only been a primer for the actual spontaneous overflow of emotion that had now taken him, his skin a flood of desire, his whole being, a barely contained craving.  An acute physical pain started in his chest, as if he’d literally die if he didn’t touch her.  Feeling increasingly unstable, ready to snap, he felt a primitive desire, an agitation of the soul: he had always doubted the existence of the soul, but now he knew that he had one, because his was surging with desire for Carrie, to have her, and to know she loved him in return.

He considered the number of hours he had pondered her enigmatic persona, her hallucinatory behavior, the number of nights he had stroked himself to a peak, thinking of the feeling of her delicious slight weight in his lap that long night.  As man who prided himself on self-control, self-discipline and civilized behavior, had been brought up to keep his feelings contained from a very young age, this loss of control was something he had no precedent for.  Something vast and ungovernable was welling up in him, a feeling enormous, overflowing and skin-tight. He didn’t even have a name for it.  Her statements prior to her involuntary nap in bed indicated her desires were the same as his, and taking this as tacit permission, Aasar reached out for her. 

He began to unbutton Carrie’s blouse, long brown fingers dexterously opening the front of her clothing without yet touching her, though he could feel the heat of her skin as he did so.  He parted the open blouse and pushed it back to expose a transparent white brassiere, through which her nipples were clearly visible.  He dared to place a light kiss on the swell of one curvy breast, and sat up next to her, his hands then moving to the waistband of her slacks. She shifted slightly in her sleep, but appeared not to wake.  Unsnapped and unzipped, he pressed the top of her pants down and open to reveal an equally transparent pair of panties, with a scalloped lace edge.  Feeling like a voyeur, hoping that she would consent on waking, still he was not able to stop his torrent of desire, and to somehow stem the excess, the urge to simply strip her naked and take her before she was fully awake, he got up off the bed, and removed his shirt.  Likewise, his pants soon fell into a heap on the floor.  Crawling back next to Carrie wearing only boxers, he leaned in again and nuzzled his mouth into the hollow of her throat below the ear, pressing a burning kiss there. 

                At this last movement, the heat and smell of him arousing her, Carrie opened her eyes, looked down at herself, and at him.  He sat back, his eyes flaring guilt at having partially undressed her while she slept.  Behind the shame, Carrie saw the storming of his desire, and emotions, and reached out to put a hand on his cheek. 

                “It’s alright,” was all she said, stroking his face.

                Abashed at his own effrontery, he receded into first-aid mode again, briefly, his excitement apparent in his boxers, but not quite knowing how to proceed.   
                “Are you feeling better?” he asked.

               Carrie sat up and removed her blouse, then unsnapped her bra, freeing her breasts.  Khan’s heart leapt in his chest.  “I’m better.  Can you take the ice pack off now?” she asked. 

                He moved to the foot of the bed and complied.  When she was barefoot, she pulled her slacks the rest of the way off, and kneeling on the bed, looked Aasar right in the eye while she pulled her panties down, and off, revealing her light, silky bush and a tantalizing glimpse of her nether lips.  She was waiting for him to do something, say something.  She hoped she was doing the right thing, bringing him closer, finally ready to lean into him and let their passions merge, healing them both after the months of fear and privation.

Now naked, she lay back down on Aasar’s bed.  “You can have me,” she said simply, quietly.

He immediately pulled his boxers to the floor, and stepped out of them, then climbed back up onto the bed, covering her with his body, his kisses striking her open and accepting lips like a firestorm.  She acted, too, like she was starved for him.  Their arms went around each other, and Khan’s weight pressed Carrie into his bed, immobilizing her.  She was so incredibly soft, beautiful.  His lust rose, the emotional dam burst, and his movements became nearly violent, like he was under a spell, so great was his desire to possess and satisfy. 

“Oooh. Ouch,” Carrie protested.  Aasar immediately stopped, pulled back.  “Did I hurt you?” he asked worriedly, still in a spasm of desire.

“Not my lips,” she said, though they were already swollen and rosy from his heated kisses. “My ankle.”  He moved off and next to her, and she reached down and touched the swelling flesh gently.  “It’s tender, and I think we, um, hurt it again,” she said.

Khan looked at the gauze on the bedside table.  He prepared to say, “I’m going to bind it up for you,” as he stood and reached for it.  But what came out of his mouth was, “I’m going to bind you.”

He immediately regretted the slip – having the feeling he might have overstepped, but in that, he was incorrect.  Carrie had lain back on the bed, and was regarding him with frank lust.  “I’d like that,” she said huskily. 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Carrie scooted closer to the end of the bed, naked and smooth on her back, and offered the injured ankle up to Khan, who stood at the foot of the bed, holding a roll of white gauze.  He attempted to moderate his tone of voice, in order to sound in control and a bit circumspect, but as he described his movements and intent, his voice shook.  The volcano of feeling he had previously swallowed back down was all but erupting, and soon he knew his pragmatic act of kindness would morph into an erotic capture.  He knew it, and she knew it.  He was ready to burst with it, and he could tell that she wanted to receive him.  At last, he thought.

                “ _Thence, on to the stately pleasure-dome,”_ he thought, moving as if in a waking dream, winding the gauze around her injured ankle, sneaking looks at her rosy labia and flaxen pubic hair.  His surname was an honorific, and quite common in Pashto, but in the past he had wondered if Kubla Khan had been distant forebear in antiquity, and if that Khan had ever enjoyed binding, restraining and dominating his numerous concubines.  The erotic images that swam before his mind back then couldn’t compare to Carrie’s lovely, pale and passive form, her captivated, aroused stare, patient, as she waited for Khan to determine what to do with her next.  He tried to keep his voice calm, and retain an air of command.

                “There, that should hold the injured one,” he said, tying it off.  But instead of cutting the gauze, Khan captured her other slim ankle, and held both of them together. “Now, I’m going to bind you,” he said. He continued to wind the white cloth around and around both ankles, finally tying it off.  “Does it hurt you?” he asked, concerned, but also trying to sound a bit impassive.  He wanted her to know that she was being captured, being possessed.  Her eyes were heavy-lidded, not with exhaustion this time, but with eros.

                “No,” Carrie said, almost inaudibly. “There’s no pain.”  Not yet, he thought.

                “Good,” he said matter-of-factly.  “Now, up on your knees.”

                He helped her carefully into a kneeling position on the bed, and she sat back on her bound feet.  Procuring another roll of gauze, Khan grasped both of her hands and held them in front of her, pinioned in one of his large ones.  He repeated the procedure, tying her wrists together securely, the gauze soft but inelastic, and giving no quarter.  She would not be able to release herself, and his cock twitched again at her helplessness.

                Moving behind Carrie, where she still sat in this kneeling position, bound hands in her lap, he crawled onto the bed behind her. He leaned in and kissed her back between the shoulder blades, leaning on his hands and touching her in no other way. He could feel her shiver, as he worked his way over her shoulder and kissed her near the earlobe.  His self-control over his desires, his words, was nearly gone.  The last of his lucid mind made one last check, for consent. 

                Stroking her hair, Khan said, “Are you sure you want this?”

                Carrie nodded.  “I don’t just want _this_ ,” she said softly.  “I want _you_. I’ve dreamt about it.”

I’ve snapped, he thought.  Khan knew he would now break loose from his moorings, and become more a possessive animal, a sheik or sultan initiating a new harem girl, than a normal human lover.  The loss of control was liberating, and here he was, sharing this ecstasy with the woman he’d dreamt about every night for so long.  His excitement was unutterable, savage desires queuing up one after the other in his fevered brain. Carrie’s head turned back to look at him, as he whispered to her, “Very well.  I’m going to use you, now.”  He vaulted to his feet, and seized her.

                She moaned in acquiescence as he placed both hands under her arms, lifting her like she weighed nothing.  He set her on her knees on the thick pile rug, facing the direction of the painting, above which was the only light source in the room.  “My house is well built, and it has a large garden,” he said, “so you’ll be able to scream.  No one will hear you but me,” Khan finished roughly.

                Sounding the slightest bit apprehensive, but also mildly amused, Carrie stammered, “Will I _want_ to scream?”

                Khan used his hands to guide her into a straight-backed kneeling posture, bound hands in front of her, her tied ankles extended behind, like a disgraced postulant in prayer, awaiting punishment.  “By the end, you will,” he said gruffly.  “Look straight ahead, at the painting.”

                Carrie did as Khan asked, and observed the characters in the painting enjoying a game of Blind-Man’s Bluff, innocent, pastoral foolishness, it was.  In contrast, she felt a deathly serious, heavily breathing Aasar Khan use another roll of gauze to cover her eyes.  After several wraps around, the blindfold was complete: light and comfortable, but she couldn’t see.

                “Do you trust me?” he asked, knowing the answer, and knowing they both needed this tremendously.

                “Yes,” Carrie whispered.

                “Then obey me,” Khan said.  He positioned her shoulders and adjusted her back ramrod-straight, still on her knees.  He commanded, “Keep your back straight,” A moment later, Carrie could feel the head of his cock touching her lips.  She opened her mouth, surrendering. She thought he tasted good, felt good, his silky uncircumcised head smelling and tasting like a stronger version of the animal Khan smell she picked up in the car.  Concentrated sex, the liquor of his desire, an aphrodisiac like no other.  She opened, took him in deeper, felt his foreskin slide back and forth, heard him sigh, and then moan. Hands bound, ankles tied, and blindfolded, she helplessly surrendered to sucking him.  Her vulva became moist with her own lubrication, and she was internally dismayed at her own brazen choice, engaging in such a sexual power-play scenario.  But Khan’s magnetism had been the convincer, and oh, was she glad she had chosen so well.  His prick was longer than she was comfortable with, and she gagged a few times, after which he was careful not to plunge so deep.  His hands in her hair guided her pace, and his sighs and groans made it abundantly clear that her expert cocksucking was bringing him close to orgasm very swiftly.   
                “That’s enough,” he said, voice ragged. “I want you differently now.” She felt herself being lifted again, her cool skin pressed against Aasar’s hot chest as he lifted her off her feet. Unable to see, she became dizzy and slightly disoriented as he moved her through space, but soon realized that he had settled her back on the bed, on her back.  He raised her bound hands over her head, and she felt that he had found some other unknown soft cloth to tie her wrists to the bedframe.  His mouth came down on hers in a passionate kiss, and she returned it with ferocity, now desperate for the loving connection.  They had fallen deeply into the scene, and there was no question that the evening would proceed in any way he chose, until they were both spent.  Carrie would serve Aasar this night, she was willing, even eager. It was beyond his wildest dreams, her compliance, her submission, and her exquisite beauty. 

                After he finished binding her hands, she felt him move around to her right side. Khan’s left hand grasped her bound ankles, and lifted them high, folding Carrie at the waist as she lay on her back, knees bent and separated.  Her ass and pussy thus exposed, he held her there and used his free right hand to explore her nether cheeks, the backs of her bent knees, her pale, curly bush, her thin thighs, stroking, arousing, and looking for hidden erogenous zones.  He patted, then smacked Carrie’s taut bottom, testing the sound that was made, observing how her bottom bounced, how firm her buttocks were. She sucked in her breath. 

“Aasar,” she said, sounding alarmed, “what are you doing?”

It was all he could do to contain the words of love in his heart, check his desire to speak to her of his adoration.  I’m going to make love to you, please you, bring you to climax. I want to keep your love for myself, and be with you, all the days of my life:  this is what he wanted to say.   But the sexual tension, the dominant approach of his lovemaking had a momentum of its own, and the delight of Carrie in bondage held him back.  It wasn’t the right time to say these things, not yet. 

So all he said was, “I’m going to please you, and use you to please myself.” he said. Her breaths still came fast and panicky, and his words didn’t seem to allay her fear, so he said simply, “I want to spank you, Carrie.”

She gasped, wiggled her arms and legs, at which Khan had to pin her ankles back tighter.  He was careful not to twist the injured one.  He leaned down and kissed her cheek, whispering in her ear.  “A spanking isn’t all about punishment and pain, you know. Properly spanked, a woman can receive great pleasure. Let me show you. If you dislike it terribly, I’ll stop.”  She heard the fondness in his voice, felt her trust and desire rise, and nodded.

Her voice came quietly, pouting, “But I can’t _see_ you.”  Her breasts rose and fell, expecting a blow to fall any second.

He made his voice low and smooth, as if he were calming an injured falcon, jesses in hand, hood over the bright eyes.  “You don’t need to see me.  You only need to feel me,” he intoned. 

His left hand still gripped Carrie’s ankles, pressing them back, exposing her buttocks and privates.  His right hand, open and flat, smacked down on each of her buttocks in turn, slowly.  Very lightly at first, barely enough to generate a blush on her skin.  Then, slightly harder, just enough to create an agreeable vibration in her cunt, and an embarrassing smacking sound when his hand made contact.  She seemed to relax when she realized that this wasn’t a real beating, and unwound further as she felt his hands stray from a pure spanking on her individual buttocks, back and forth.  During this sexual spanking, a true bottom-warming, she felt his fingers landing on her labia during some of the slaps.  The intensity did not increase, nor did the pace, he simply held her very still, and spanked her, his bronze fingers occasionally straying into her cunt.

Carrie stopped squirming and no longer struggled.  Her breath came in more irregular gasps.  When he felt she had relaxed enough to accept her spanking, Khan stopped and moved into the center of her, hand flat and fingers together, reveling in her wetness and moving the outside edge of his palm up and down her folds, breathing comforting words into her ear. “There, there, you see? It doesn’t hurt so much, does it?” he said, cock so hard he felt he could split wood with it.

Carrie could only respond with an incoherent moan, and writhed on his caressing hand, begging him with her squirming hips to stimulate her further.  His two longest fingers found her clit, and pressed down on the clitoral hood on both sides, beginning to knead in circles. Just as Carrie began to feel herself rise into a quicksilver orgasm, Aasar removed his hand from her clit, and resumed spanking her bottom, her feet still bent back, she pinned on the bed, her bottom in the air and ripe for the striking.  She squealed in disappointment and desire, and actually started to beg.  “Please, Aasar, please.” 

Now his spanking gained intensity, truly reddening her bottom.  His voice came low, matter-of-fact, as if her chastisement by him was a foregone conclusion.  “But this is how we do, Carrie. This is how we go, when I possess you.  You have to accept it, subjugate yourself to my will,” he said. 

The warmth in her bottom, the shaking vibrations his spanks caused, caused her to moan repeatedly, head thrashing back and forth in a mix of pain and pleasure.  Khan continued to alternate fingering and fondling with his loving corporal punishment for a much longer while than she thought she could withstand, as the heat built on her stinging bum and in her cunt.  This, coupled with her bound vulnerability, and exposed posture, fetched from her suppressed whimpers, then finally pathetic pleading, head thrown back and tears leaking from beneath her blindfold

Finally, Khan took pity on Carrie, and gave her permission to climax. “You may come now,” he ordered, and ceased smacking her tender bottom. He brought her off decisively, with three firm fingers on her clit.  She finally understood why he had said she was going to scream – she did, long, loud, and shrill.  Her uninhibited pleasure was music to his ears, and he immediately let her legs relax back down onto the bed, and pulled her close.  She was shivering, and her skin felt cold. Khan’s fingers hadn’t left her cunt: he’d continued pressure to extend her orgasm for the longest possible time.

“Oh, God, Oh, God,” she moaned, panting, her orgasm still spasming through her, Khan’s other hand enjoying the heat of her raspberry-red bottom.  “Untie me, please untie me, I need to hold you,” she said.

“Not yet,” he said forcefully.  She moaned, submissively, and gave a sob. With an acute sense of this moment as a single opportunity, and a profound urge to complete what he started, in the manner he started it, Khan untied her hands from the head board, but left them bound together.  He turned her on her side, feet and hands still restrained, and entered her from behind, stereotypical love spoons, except that Carrie’s wet cunt was skewered with his prick, and her hands and feet bound in front of her made her feel all the more to him like an abducted maiden, that he had subdued and was despoiling.  He was finally inside her, and it was all he could do not to ejaculate immediately.  Her blindfold in place, Carrie was aware only of her descending orgasm, her quivering body, his ravaging cock and iron control over her. Surrendering to this beloved domination, she found herself climaxing again, keening incoherently as Khan erupted within her, his final thrust so deep that he almost penetrated her womb.  He thrust more gently, then slower, but did not pull back.  Reaching up, he removed her blindfold, and turning her face, he leaned up to kiss her.  She burst into hoarse sobs, turning to face him, wiggling her body as she was still bound, hand and foot.   Her face buried in his shoulder, she kissed the skin of his neck, and found herself unable to say anything else, except, “Oh, my God.” His lips caressed her forehead, her cheeks, kissed away her tears.

He cradled her, completely spent himself, unable to believe that the previous hours’ experience had been real at all.  His Carrie, his desirable one.  He dropped his hands to begin to untie her, and was surprised to hear her voice say, low and hoarse, “No.”

Khan looked up at her tear-stained face.  “What is it?” he said, a trifle anxious.

She used her bound hands to grab one of his.  She put it on her cheek.  “Aasar. That was the most amazing thing that ever happened to me.  I don’t want you to untie me. I want to sleep with you like this,” she said.  He kissed her cheeks, eyelids, her lips, her soft white fingers.  He was pleased beyond belief, and now that the initially overwhelming feelings were passing, she looked as satisfied as a well-stroked cat.

“Let me make you comfortable, at least,” he said.  He untied her long enough to use the bathroom, wash up, have a drink of water.  He rubbed her all over with a warm towel, like one would use to care for a purebred quarterhorse after a race.  After, he carried her back to the bed, and at her insistence, tied her ankles and wrists softly together again.  Tucking her into his bed, he crawled into bed next to her, and pulled her close.  Something about this interaction had triggered a need in her, and though he didn’t know why, he was glad.  Delighted to supply the intensity of feeling, and glad to possess her for himself.  For the first time in many years, he was able to identify what he was feeling in a very clear sense: it was happiness.

The love words, the admission of passion, the swearing of lifelong devotion – all these were on the tip of his tongue.  He wished to share his life with her – how would he ever make sure she understood? 

On his shoulder, her pale face looked as carefree and untroubled as he had ever seen it.  He considered kissing her awake, telling her his feelings – the words “Enduring Love” came to mind – but she was already asleep.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Through the night, they slept, nearly motionless, the sun finally rousing Aasar as it streamed through the bedroom curtains.  He sat up and looked at Carrie, her hands still loosely bound, clasped together almost in an attitude of prayer.  She had not left his arms the entire night.  He leaned to kiss her cheek, and she opened her eyes.

                At first, she seemed a bit surprised to still be bound and naked in his bed. Then, she simply smiled and held her wrists out to Khan.  He smiled back at her, without saying a word, and untied her hands, and after peeling back the covers, untied her feet as well.  Sitting up, cross legged on the bed, he pulled Carrie into a straddling embrace, her arms around his neck, her legs around his bum.  Both seemed to be thinking carefully about what to say first.  Khan felt shy, almost tongue tied, and then decided that it would be best to start with kindness.  She was still pressed close, her head on his shoulder.

                “I’ll bet you’re still very tired.  And hungry,” he said.  “Can I offer you a hot shower? I’ll prepare a bit of breakfast while you’re cleaning up.”

                Carrie sat back, her face inches from Aasar’s.  “I would love that,” she said.   She reached out a hand and stroked his cheek.

                He moved a bit, so that she could sit on the bed in front of him. He took her wrists in his hand, and drew a soft fingertip over the very slightest of red marks.  Khan frowned slightly. “I hope,” he said cautiously, “that you found the pleasure outweighed the pain? I certainly didn’t mean to do you any harm.”

                Carrie smiled, shook her head.  “My ass is sore,” she said.  “But it was worth it.”

                Khan’s eyes twinkled.  “I’ll find a pillow for you to sit on, at breakfast.”

                He dug in the closet until he found a bathrobe for her to borrow, one of his, which would be ludicrously oversized.  Still, it was warm and comfortable, and Khan dressed himself after Carrie shut herself into the master bath. 

He headed downstairs to the kitchen, and began to assemble a number of breakfast items.  She was American, so he figured on coffee instead of tea.  But he had no idea what else she might like.  In preparation, he toasted crumpets, dug two reasonably fresh scones out of the breadbox, warmed some butter, and soft-boiled some eggs.  He was squeezing oranges by hand when she sauntered into the kitchen, a towel turban wrapped around her head, nearly drowning in his forest-green terrycloth bathrobe.  The sleeves had been turned up at least 3 times.  She smiled.

“Wow,” she said, eyeing the food, “This is…. nice.”  She sat on a barstool next to the kitchen island, and allowed Khan to bring her coffee and a plate. 

“How’s your ankle?” he asked, concerned.

“I think it’s fine,” Carrie said, flexing her bare  foot.

“Lucky,” Khan observed.  Then, indicating the food, he asked, “One of everything?”

“Yes, thanks,” she said.  She slumped a little, remembering the outside world and feeling it intrude on their idyll.  “I don’t remember the last time I’ve eaten.”

“We’ll remedy that,” he said, setting a generous breakfast in front of her.

                While he cooked, prepared himself a pot of tea, and bustled about the kitchen, Khan had been preparing in his mind, rehearsing the words to use, so that Carrie would at least know, and understand that what happened between them was more than some intense one-night stand.  He considered certain turns of phrase, pondered playing certain music, then rejected it, as being too affected.  He wanted to dress her in silks, take her into his garden, spend the afternoon reading her poetry in the sunshine, and then carry her upstairs for a repeat of last night.  He wanted to wake with her blonde hair on the next pillow, every morning of his life.  How does one begin such a declaration?

                Tongue-tied and anxious, he ate and made small talk during breakfast, and for long periods of time, neither of them said anything at all.  Finally, putting the dishes into the sink, Khan screwed his courage to the sticking place.  He took a deep breath and was about to launch into his description of his feelings, for her, when she came to stand next to him by the counter.  She was finishing her orange juice, and as she tossed it back, his robe opened slightly, revealing  a shapely portion of white neck.  His hands itched to stroke it.  She plunked the glass into the sink, as Khan started to speak.               

“Carrie…” he began, but he got no further.

               “Don’t,” she interrupted.  “I can’t stand it.  I don’t want to hear you tell me that this can never happen again,” she said.  “If that’s the way it is, then I don’t want to talk at all.”  A tear slid down her cheek. He was warmly astonished; a flush went straight to his face.  Had he heard her correctly?

                “Carrie, please,” he tried again.  She walked away across the kitchen, sat back on the barstool, and let her robe fall open over her legs.  They looked white and thin – she could do with some building up, he thought absently.

              “Don’t “Carrie” me,” she said, turning angry.  “ _I_ know that _you_ know all about me.  My condition, my mental illness,” she said.  “And in the end, it drives everyone away.  It’ll drive you away, too,” she said. 

                He was flabbergasted.  Did she really think that this knowledge would change his feelings, prevent his love?  He didn’t know where to start.  He walked closer, put his hands on her shoulders.

                “That’s not how I see it at all,” Aasar said.  “In fact, that’s nothing like what I intended to say.”

                She looked up at him, mistrustfully.  Trust in bed was one thing, but trust with your heart was quite another.  That’s why all her life; it had been Fuck-and-Run. 

                He took one of her hands in both of his, and held it.  Raised it to his lips and kissed it.  “Last night was – I don’t know how to say it.  It was an epiphany for me.  It was more than lovemaking, it was more than closeness.  I’ve never felt anything like it, and I am sure I’ll never be the same. At this point, Carrie, I don’t know how I’m going to live without you.”

                As he spoke, her eyes changed from hostile, to wondering, to liquid with tenderness.  She stood in front of Khan, and buried her face in his shirtfront.

                “Aasar,” she said, “I can’t believe you really want me.  And I don’t know how we can make it work.  But I feel the same way,” she said, weeping quietly.  “I’m so wretched at the thought of leaving you, that I almost can’t function.”

                He pulled her into a tight embrace.  “Then, we’ll find a way to make it work. I swear to you.  Life is about more than work, or politics, or patriotism, and I’m terrified that I’ll come to the end of my life, and find out that I haven’t lived at all. You make me feel alive, Carrie.”  His hand under her chin turned her face upwards, and they kissed.

                “Aasar,” she said after he released her, “I have a child. A little girl.”

                Khan shrugged.  “I love children.”

                “And I’m bipolar, you know that, right?”

                “I’m well aware, you silly girl. We had quite a night before, because of the wrong medication.  I can help you, you know.  Keep you on the straight and narrow.”

                “But would you want children of your own?” she asked.

                “Carrie, we don’t have to answer all these questions in one day,” Khan said.  “There’s much to consider and changes to be made, and we’ll be spending a lot of time on Skype for a while.  But I promise you, this is not a temporary engagement with me.  I want it all, darling, I want all of you.  I want us to try.”

                Another tear slipped from the corner of her eye, this time though, a blissful one. They moved to the windows that overlooked the back garden, and arms around each other, studied the sculpture and carefully maintained green in the morning light.

                Carrie shook her head.  “You barely know me.  I just hope we’re compatible.”

                Khan smiled down at her.  “We are, in the most important way,” he said, rubbing her bottom. “In fact, we might have enough time to review that compatibility, before we get back to work.”

                A genuine smile lit her face, and Carrie let Aasar lead the way back up the stairs.   

Khan smiled as he spoke.  “You know that painting in my bedroom, Blind-Man’s Bluff? Take a closer look at the woman, now we’re going up.  You’ll see that she’s peeking from under her blindfold.  She knows what she’s getting into, you see?”  
                Carrie smiled. “She certainly does.”  She clasped his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The painting that I took the title from can be seen here:
> 
> http://tinyurl.com/oopzewt
> 
> Very best to you all -  
> Blossom


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